Anger And Rage
by mandaree1
Summary: Django fed the anger, carefully redirecting and shaping it. He felt the rage shift towards the two men currently arguing about his future like he wasn't listening and welcomed it. Set in 'The Good, The Bad, And The Tigre.'


**Disclaimer: I don't own El Tigre: The Adventures Of Manny Rivera**

**Title: Anger And Rage**

**Summary: Django fed the anger, carefully redirecting it and shaping it. He felt the rage shift towards the two men currently arguing about his future like he wasn't listening and welcomed it. Set in The Good, The Bad, And The Tigre.**

**Setting: The Good, The Bad, and The Tigre. Works for either endings, set around when Manny finally lets loose and yells at Rodolfo and Grandpapi.**

**...**

He'd been terrified the day he got his scar.

Imagine it. He was new on the scene of fighting, a little cocky (more so than usual), and with no real reputation. And, out of pure stupidity, he drags Frida around the city before he truly knows his way around the dark alleyways. And, out of pure lack of battle experience, manages to lose is best friend in a crowd of zombie skeletons. The battle is harsh, but he manages to bust his way through the groups of banditos guarding the gate and finds himself face to face with one of the greatest super-villians in Miracle City- Sartana Of The Dead. The anger and fear coursing through his veins, the knowledge that Sartana had hundreds of years and a mystic guitar over him, and the always present background cheer of his best friend.

The battle is harsh, especially for a newbie like himself, and he fears death multiple times. His last minute choice to shoot his claw sends the battle in his favor, but Sartana deflects the claw with her guitar and lets the moving chain flow through her grip, ready to be grabbed and yanked, as it shoots towards him. He pulled away, but the grip was too tight for him to move and the claw managed to get his face. They'd fussed over him for a bit, they both had, but he'd played it off. Rivera men didn't get scared, especially of villains like Sartana. ("Oh, my face? Is it bleeding? Eh, I didn't even notice. It's _fine_, dad, I promise. What? It was going to scar- quite possibly for the rest of his life? Cool! My first battle scar!)

He was mad. He never made good choices when he was mad. It ran in the family, after all, just look at his mom, or his dad, or even his Grandpapi. He knew it wasn't a good idea to let the anger get to him, he'd heard the lecture enough times to have it memorized, but... Django words were so... _true_! They'd never cared about him. After all, hadn't dad used him on more than a few occasions as a distraction to get the credit of taking down the villain? Had Grandpapi tossed him around one more than a few occasions to get his way? He felt the brunt of his hatred and anger, usually centered on villains, shift towards his own family, and made no emotional effort to stop it. Where had _they_ been when _he_ needed them? The same place they'd been that fateful day he'd gotten his scar. Together, arguing with each other instead of_ helping_ him.

Django had fed the anger. Whispered words filled with the truth, words that contained the bitter, cruel, reality. His family didn't care for him. They never had. If they'd really cared, would they have left him alone that fateful day when he got his signature scar? They'd knew where he'd been, of the danger he'd faced. But had they stopped it? No, they'd argued, exchanged useless words with no real worth, then gave him a lecture. Just like now.

How many times had he been shoved aside so his father could take the brunt of the glory for saving the day? How many wounds had he gained protecting him when he was down? How many times had Grandpapi thrown him around for his own personal satisfaction? How many times had he allowed it? Why was he letting them push him around like that? He had claws and powers and could fight with the best of them. He could take both of them, he didn't have to let them push him around like he their private piñata to smack. His rage, which was usually par to the heat of a spicy burrito or fading match, was now a desert fire in the midst of a drought, with only one thing on it's mind: revenge.

Django understood. Sartana pushed him aside, called him a child. Apparently, being an undead zombie skeleton that had his own mystic guitar wasn't good enough for the old bag of bones. Like how he, even with his connections to the Great Tiger Spirits and sharp claws, wasn't enough for his family. Django was in this for himself, to show up his Nana and make his greatness known. If only it were that easy with his family.

And he _was_ learning something, thanks to his skeleton buddy. He'd always suppressed his anger enough to keep a cool head, bit his tongue and shredded the enemy, saving the brunt of the anger, storing it away. And now, thanks to the right prodding, he was learning just how wrong that was. His anger... it didn't cloud his mind or mess up his movements like Grandpapi and dad had said it would (something they both agreed on- anger messed up a hero/villain)._ No_, his mind had never felt clearer, his body had never felt stronger. It felt like the Miracle City volcano was inside him, bubbling and exploding and guiding his movements. Honestly, he was starting to really like this side of himself.

He'd defeat his family and take the crown with Django. That'd work. He'd show his family, teach them why you shouldn't get him angry (truly, poison spitting angry), _and_ Django would be able to show up Sartana. Everyone won, right?

Django gave him a familiar, understanding look as he added the last bit of kindle to the fire. He saw the merits in anger, knew the power of rage. He was helping him, showing him the error of his ways. If things turned out the way he hoped, he'd never hide his anger again.

His ears fell, the familiar urge to let his claws do the talking bubbling in the volcano inside. Not yet, he told himself, it's best to give them a fair warning. He took a deep breath, held himself in for a second, before letting his emotions run free. He felt his eyes dull to a dark, fathomless, green.

The beast inside roared.

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